Free The Velvet Rage by Alan Downs Page B

who was in a residential treatment facility for adolescents. Sean had been placed into the facility for repeatedly running away from home and for frequent bouts of depression. When I met him, it became clear to both of us that Sean was gay. Although he described himself as bisexual, it was evident that his only real romantic feelings had been for other boys.
    Sean told me that his maternal grandfather had been the only person who seemed to understand him. He was a wise old man who spent a great deal of time with Sean, taking him fishing and camping in the nearby mountains. These trips away from home were greatly welcomed respites from the frequent beatings he was subjected to by his stepfather. His mother had remarried when Sean was seven years old, and the stepfather had been determined to “whip him into shape.”
    I hadn’t been treating Sean for very long when I learned that he had recently had a sexual affair with another male resident. Of course, sexual relations among any of the residents were strictly
forbidden in treatment—the subsequent persecution brought from the other male residents was just one of the many good reasons why. The other boys whispered loud enough for Sean to hear “queer” and “homo” when he walked by. The taunting and embarrassment had become unbearable for Sean. The other resident with whom he had the affair denied having participated in anything and completely ignored Sean when the affair became public knowledge.
    One Friday in July, I met with Sean just before he was to have a two-hour visit with his mother. He was so excited to see her and told me that he had convinced her that he was ready to return home now. As he told it, they were going to make plans for his discharge in the next week.
    That Sunday, sitting out on the patio of my favorite coffee shop, my cell phone rang. The voice on the other end was frantic. “Dr. Downs, you’ve got to come to the office quickly.” Concerned, I questioned the caller, a junior staff member at the facility, carefully. As he choked out the details, I started running to the car. One of the male residents had hanged himself.
    On the drive to the treatment facility, I somehow knew that Sean was the person in question, but the staffer who had called me said that he wasn’t sure. As I walked onto the grounds, I’ll never forget what I saw. There, swinging from a rope tied to a tree not more than a hundred yards from my office, was Sean.
    Nothing shakes you like having a client commit suicide. No amount of preparation or warnings from wise, experienced professors can prepare you for it. It makes you question everything about your profession, your skills, and the meaning of life.
    What I took from this young man’s suicide was a reverent awareness of the dire trauma that stage one relationships create.
I know that I will always be reminded of the significant and overwhelming consequences from these relationships. What casual observers might dismiss as young infatuations, I would always be careful to understand as powerful experiences that can become the template upon which many future relationships are built.
    After his death, I learned that the visit with Sean’s mother had gone poorly and that she had told him that he could not return because his stepfather wouldn’t allow a homosexual in the house. She told him he was to spend the next six months in treatment and hopefully “get over” his sexual problems. Undoubtedly, Sean had been drowned in overwhelming shame, not only from his parents but by a treatment center that had failed to keep him safe from the cruel tauntings of the other young men. It had been unbearable, and he chose the only escape he could think of.
    â€œBack in the ’50s and ’60s, it wasn’t all that unusual to hear that a gay man had committed suicide. For a lot of men, it just wasn’t an option to be a homo. It was just too disgraceful.”
    DICK